Chapter 17

- Bronwen -

I clench my knife and stand still, ready to bolt if this is anything other than what it seems like

The boy comes out of the bushes, showing me his hands are empty. "I'm a Foundling, Woman Bronwen. I saw you leave the camp. But it's dangerous to be alone here."

I look him up and down. He's a scrawny caveman kid of maybe ten, dirty and scruffy as they all are. His loincloth is loose and only held up by the shoulder strap. Under his arm he clenches a spear like Noker's, except shorter.

One of his feet is bare, and the other is thickly wrapped in unspeakably dirty dinosaur skins. He limps when he comes towards me, slowly and carefully.

"Who sent you?" I ask with suspicion. "This is dangerous for boys, too."

"Nobody sent me," he says. "Brother Sprisk turned his back, and I snuck away."

I sigh and put the knife back in its sheath. "So now I have to protect you, too."

"No," he says eagerly. "I'll protect you, Woman Bronwen! Look!"

He shows me his spear, which is short and has a flint head on it, not steel. But it looks sharp.

"Even Noker can barely protect woman in the jungle, clansbrother. And you not even reached the Stripening."

"I'm good," he says, miffed in the way only a child can be. "I'm the best hunter of all the boys. Brak himself said it!"

"Damn," I mutter in English. "This is just what I need. What's your name?" I continue in the caveman language.

"I'm Trat, Woman Bronwen."

"Trat, the first thing you do is not call me ‘woman'. ‘Bronwen' is fine. The second thing is go straight back to the camp. Sprisk needs help with the hunting when Noker and Brak are away."

"I helped him all day yesterday," Trat says, bright eyes wide. "There's no need to hunt today. We have enough. And Noker brought a big pack of food from the Borok tribe!"

I look nervously around. We shouldn't be talking at all. "You have answer for everything, Trat. When did you leave the camp?"

"Right after you did, Wom— Bronwen."

"So you don't know if Noker come back there now?"

"No."

I close my eyes for a moment. Things weren't great before, but now having to babysit a boy has made them worse. What I have to do is make my way back to the camp and hope that Noker is there.

I sigh again. It might not be too bad. He's probably home now, and the boy can keep me company.

"All right, Trat. Let's go back home."

He frowns. "But Noker. We didn't find him."

"He's probably in the camp now, eating the Borok food," I tell him. "It's good food. You get some, too."

The kid thinks. "Noker isn't in the camp."

"How do you know?"

"If he comes back but you're not there, he will go to find you. He won't stay in the camp."

I scratch my head. That is what he would do, but I didn't think Trat would know. "So we may meet him on the way back."

"We may," Trat says and twirls his spear between two fingers. "But we should still search for him."

I nod at his foot. "Are you injured?"

He subconsciously hides the wrapped foot behind the other. "No. That foot is not like the others."

Ah. That must be the reason the tribe he was born into set him out into the jungle to die and he became a Foundling. "But you can still walk?"

"I can walk and run," Trat says, sticking his chin out in defiance. "But not fast," he adds.

I can't help but like this little Foundling. But now I have to get him safely home.

And then? What if Noker isn't there? What if he…

No, I don't want to finish that thought. There are many ways to die on Xren, but he's smart and immensely capable. He'll be all right.

"Are you hungry?" I ask. "Thirsty?"

"No. There are many berries and fruits in the jungle," Trat tells me in his precocious manner.

"Tired? In pain?" I try again.

"I'm fine. Are you?"

"Yes. Let us go. If you see danger, hide. Not fight."

"I know," he says, and I get the feeling that only politeness is stopping him from rolling his eyes.

Trat insists on going in front, like Noker did. I'm not sure how smart it is, but this kid has lived his whole life in the jungle, above ground. He may be as good as he thinks he is.

When we get to the camp, I'll personally watch him eat his fill of Borok food. He's far too skinny.

The walk is no easier than before. I still stay alert, and I notice Trat is just as sensitive as I am to strange movements among the leaves and plants. Several times he stops to hide before I've even noticed anything, and once another giant insect flutters past us while we're pushing our backs against the trunk for a tree, trying to be invisible.

The sun is about to set when the ground gets really soggy and the stench is worse than usual. In front of us is a big swamp, looking like a mosaic of various rotting plant matter, withered reeds and who knows what else. Tall ferns sway slowly back and forth for no reason that I can see — there's no wind down here. A mist hangs over the place, and I swear I can see giant mosquitoes buzzing in the far distance. Dead trees rise up from the surface here and there, pointing to the sky. There are also living trees, but they don't grow as densely here as on land.

"I not remember this," I confess. "Where are we?"

Trat puts the tip of his spear to the ground and pushes it down. "It's a swamp."

"Swamp," I repeat the new word. "You not see it before?"

"Not this one."

"We lost our way," I conclude. "But this is not nice place. Must find a way around the swamp."

"It's shorter to go through," Trat says. "A swamp could be very large. Brak and Noker say so."

I gaze out at the misty mire. "Going through be dangerous. There's nowhere to hide."

Trat easily jumps from the shore and onto a little hummock covered in gray, withered grass that sticks out of the slimy standing water. "Brak says a swamp is sometimes safer than the jungle, because the Bigs don't want to go there. They're afraid of sinking."

"Does he, now." I try the edge of the shore with my foot. Trat may have a point. But there aren't that many trees growing from the swamp, so it'll be easy for dactyls to spot us from above. And swamps are usually popular with insects.

I try the jump myself, landing awkwardly beside Trat on the dry-ish hummock. "Let us go back to land. Swamps have nasty things. Irox can see us." I point up, where the reddening sky can be spotted through the patchy foliage.

"But rekh and kronk don't come here," Trat says and jumps to another grassy hummock.

"There not place to hide!" I hiss, feeling silly that I'm arguing with a ten-year-old boy and not just making decisions. But when it comes to the jungle, he's probably ten times as experienced as I am. He did follow me through the woods for many hours without me having any idea he was there at all. And he seems perfectly confident.

Trat eyes the distance to the next dry patch. "The dangers also have no place to hide from us. We'll see them long before they can get close. If Noker comes to look for us, he will go through the swamp."

He has a point. "But the moment I see a giant mosquito," I mutter, "I'm turning around and going to the shore alone if I have to."

The sounds in the swamp are different from the jungle. There's a lot of rustling in the reeds and the ferns, and each one sends a chill down my spine. There's wet bubbling and squelching from the mud, as well as noises that must come from living things. Twigs snap and leaves drop for no good reason.

I keep listening for ugly hums that could mean a swarm is coming. As the sky gets darker, I imagine I see lumbering shadows of giant dinosaurs in the distance.

My skin is creeping from it all as we make our way from one small dry patch to the next. And still I see no end to the swamp. Soon night will fall. We may have to stay here through the night, balancing on some tiny, mushroom-shaped ball of dry grass, being sitting targets for any passing menace.

But we better keep going. Trat jumps from one little mound to the next, always pushing off with his wrapped foot and landing on the good one. I follow as well as I can.

As darkness sets in, I notice that the swamp is even brighter at night than the jungle. There are many luminescent plants and things that look like water lilies and have flowers like twenty-watt light bulbs. It's the eeriest place I've ever been.

Some creature starts squawking from somewhere off to the side, its sharp and repetitive cries piercing the humid air.

Trat keeps going, testing each little dry patch with his spear before he jumps onto it. It makes it easy for me to follow him, but it also makes me feel as if I'm exploiting a child.

"Wait," I call to him as I jump onto the same patch where he's standing. "Let us think."

He looks up at me. "Not here, Bronwen. We're sinking."

I look down. And sure enough, this particular hummock is slowly sinking into the swamp. "Oh."

Trat jumps on, and I follow, eager to get away before the patch gives way under me.

"Sinking now?" I ask, squinting suspiciously at the ground of this new spot.

"I don't think so," Trat says and stomps his good foot. "I think it's an island."

I raise my head and look ahead. It's not easy to see in the strange light, but it does appear that the dry patch is stretching out ahead of us. There's a cluster of trees and many low bushes. Now that I check, we're standing on rotting grass, but under that there are round rocks. This might be some kind of moraine from eons ago.

"Or other side of the swamp," I say hopefully.

"Maybe," Trat says and wanders further along.

Compared to the rest of the swamp, this spot is nicer. There are trees stretching high above us, shielding us from dactyls. Some of the plants have a lot of luminescent leaves, making it so bright that it's possible to see color and not just gray. The solid ground makes me feel more secure.

"We can stay here the night," I suggest. "Make a fire and rest."

Trat half turns. "A fire can be seen from far away."

"Noker may see it and come."

Trat gives an alien shrug and walks on, stopping at the nearest bush and digging into the ground with the blunt end of his spear. He bends down and cuts with the spearhead, then lifts out three red bulbs that could be mistaken for purple carrots. "These are drap roots. If we make a fire, we can roast them." He pulls up several more roots and bundles them together, carrying them by their yellow stems.

I start picking up dry leaves and twigs for the fire. Roasted almost-carrots sound okay to me now, after having lived on berries all day and not having found even that for the past hour or so we've been walking through the swamp.

I make a ring of round rocks, and Trat comes dragging a whole dead tree. It's twice as tall as me, all dry branches and a thick, dry trunk that I'm sure will burn just fine.

"Good," I praise the boy. "Trat is chief of both jungle and swamp."

He gives me a shy smile and dumps the tree on the ground. "But I'm not good at making fire."

I arrange the kindling in the ring I've made and break pieces off the dry tree. "I will try."

It's one of the things a tunnel girl has to be good at, and Astrid and Alba and I did it many times. I get two suitable pieces of wood, make an indentation in the middle of one, place it on the ground, and then place the tip of the other in the little hole. Then it's just a matter of rolling the last piece fast between my hands, pushing down to create friction and heat. I crumble up dry kindling and put it in the hole, and soon wisps of smoke are rising. Blowing on the embers, I quickly make a loose bundle of straw and leaves, put the embers inside, and transfer the bundle to the fire, always blowing on it. Flames start to appear, and the kindling catches.

"That's quick," Trat says, clearly impressed. "In the camp, we always use the embers from the fire the night before."

I get as comfortable as I can by the fire. "Where I lived, we always had to make new fire. Embers were dangerous for us."

The boy nods wisely. "In the tribe."

"In the tunnels," I correct him. "I only been in the Borok tribe for some days."

"Brak says the Borok tribe is mighty and their village is great."

I shrug. "Is a good tribe, I think. Chief Korr'ax is good."

"Our clan is good, too," Trat states. "We don't need a chief to command us. We know what to do without being told."

I hide a smile behind one hand. That must be something he heard from Noker and Brak, who always want their clansbrothers to be proud. "That's right. The camp is very wonderful. The Borok tribe does not have platforms like the clan."

"They have caves and huts," Trat says and puts the drap roots on the fire. "And a red mountain."

I pull a small twig out from under me where it's been irritating my rear. "I'm sure you will visit, Trat. The clan is friends with the Borok tribe."

"They will protect us and let us hunt on their turf," he agrees. "And we will make alkol and ropes for them."

"That's right." I lift my head and look around. This island is not a bad place to spend the night. The squawking creature is still at it, but if it hasn't attacked us yet, maybe it never will. The air is stale and humid, but I think Trat is right about dinosaurs not liking the moisture.

"Will Noker live in the Borok village?" Trat asks, looking into the fire.

"I don't think so," I reply carefully. "They like him, but he likes the clan more. Just like Brak does."

"The clan needs Noker. When he's not there, everyone is more afraid. Nothing happens then."

"The other clansbrothers don't do anything?"

He hesitates. "We want to. But Noker and Sprisk don't like it when we go into the jungle. Or when we try to do things that they usually do."

"They don't let you do the work?"

"Sometimes they don't." Trat straightens, probably not wanting to even get close to saying something negative about a clansbrother. "But Noker is nice. Always smiling and joking."

I smile. "Everyone likes him, huh?"

"He's a great hunter, and he likes to play with us. He teaches us many things. I want him to teach me to hunt with only my hands, but I can't do it like he can."

I frown. "With only your hands? But you have a spear."

"Noker also has a spear, but he likes to hunt with only his hands. Once he killed a rekh!"

I'm sure I must be misunderstanding this. Surely nobody, not even Noker, can take down a raptor with his bare hands. "He killed a rekh with his hands?"

"Yes. It was attacking him and he didn't have his spear. So he killed it," Trat says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I know that Brak can kill rekh with teeth," I try again. "Maybe it was him?"

"It was Noker. With his hands." Trat uses his spear to turn over the purple bulbs in the fire. They're starting to smell really good, like fried potatoes.

"He not tell me he can do that."

"He didn't tell anyone," Trat says, adjusting his baggy loincloth. "But we saw it. Gesk and I. He said not to tell anyone because Shaman Melr'ax wouldn't like it. But Gesk told everyone."

"Gesk is your friend?"

"Yes. He's older than me, we think. He's taller. But not as much taller as he was before, Noker says. He has a bow and arrows. He shot a spront from the platform!"

"Oh. Gesk is a good hunter, then."

"Not as good as Noker."

"Noker is good," I agree.

"He can jump so high, too. I wish I could. But…" He goes quiet.

I glance at his wrapped foot. "Can I see your foot?"

He curls it up under him. "It's not a usual foot. It's… different."

"Noker is different, too," I tell him. "Brak also. And I am different."

He frowns and looks me up and down. "You?"

"I'm a woman," I tell him. "That's very different on Xren."

He nods. "But you're not… broken."

I have to stifle a laugh. If only he knew. "You also are not broken, Trat! Sprisk is not broken. Noker is not broken. Just different! Not worry. You not have to show me."

Trat unwinds the wrapping around his foot. "I don't usually cover it. I run faster without it."

The dirty wrap comes off and reveals a foot with a sole that's curved sharply inwards and toes that point in and up, looking almost knotted. It's about what I expected.

"Can I?" I reach out and touch the skin, which looks shiny and is pulled taught over the bones. "Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes."

"Not put the wrapping back on," I suggest. "I seen it now. And you jump high, almost like Noker. Did you know he kill an irox the other day?"

Trat's eyes widen. "With his hands?"

"With his hands and his spear," I tell him. "He jumped and pulled the irox down. Then he used the spear. Into the irox's throat. And then he fought a swarm with Smalls this big!" I show him with my hands. "And he won!"

I tell him about it as well as I can, including the honor he was shown, and by the end Trat's so visibly proud of his clansbrother hero that I have to smile.

"Being different is good," I finish. "It can help you. Shall we try the drap?—"

Someone clears their throat nearby.

Trat bounces to his feet and grabs his spear, pulling it back to thrust it at the big, dark shadow standing behind him.